The Paths We Carve
by JustSaraNoH
Summary: Anna thought she lost Phil Coulson during the Battle of New York, but Phil is tired of keeping secrets. This is how they came together, how they fell apart, and what might be in their future. A story of Phil Coulson and his cellist.


**NOTES: **

I realize I'm bucking the trend by not making The Cellist into Clint Barton. But the show isn't taking that direction, and I want to play in the show's plots. Hopefully you will still find this story worth reading.

I cannot thank **the_wordbutler** enough on this one. Not only did she rein me in and let this story have a better ending, she helped to push me write the longest one-shot in over five years if not ever. Basically, she's awesome.

Anna and her backstory is my original creation, the rest belongs to Marvel.

* * *

Anna lost herself in the sensations and sounds of her rehearsal. The symphony hall offered a number of nice practice rooms, but like any good musician, she sought out the stairwell for her practice time. She loved to hear the strains of her cello bounce off the cinderblock walls and up the six flights of stairs. It meant dragging her cello up and down the steps, but the instrument had been faithfully at her side for twenty years; what was a few stairs?

She could hear her mentor grumble in her head in his half-Russian, half-English speak about her posture, but there wasn't enough room on the landing halfway between the first and second floors—the best spot acoustically—for her cello and a chair, so she made due with sitting on the steps. She ran through her warm up exercises and the seven pieces for the next concert—each note locked in her memory—and now was finishing up by running through her scales.

"In order to love every note you play, you must know all of them very well." That was what her childhood instructor's mantra was whenever she'd whined about making her way chromatically through each scale.

She switched from E to F when the door to the second floor opened. Ignoring the approaching steps, she continued. Whoever it as could use the other stairwell or the elevator if they couldn't wait to get to the first floor. It was when she transitioned from F to F sharp that she heard the person breathe.

The bow fell off the strings with an ineloquent squawk. In a second, she found herself up and around her instrument, back against the wall. She watched his left hand shoot out to keep her cello from falling to the ground. He looked at her with wide eyes, shocked that she'd be so careless with her most cherished possession.

She pointed her bow at him as if it were a deadly weapon she could defend herself with. Her mouth opened to say something—anything—but no sound came out. She could only shake her head at the impossibility of the situation while blinking back tears.

He gingerly leaned her cello against the wall and made sure it was secure before turning to her with raised hands. "Anna," he breathed. "I know this isn't what you expected, but—" He took a step closer, and she sucked in a breath before trying to press herself further into the wall. "Okay," he said as he moved backwards, up a few stairs. "Okay, I won't come near you. Please don't be scared."

"You're dead," she said finally. "I'm not scared, I'm fucking terrified."

He nodded. "I understand that. Except I'm not dead." His eyes grew wide as she felt rage burn through her body. "I was," he quickly amended. "I was actually dead. I didn't lie to you. I swore I would never lie to you."

"You didn't tell me you were alive," she ground out. "Think that counts as a lie of omission."

"I couldn't," he replied, his face open and pleading. "It wasn't allowed, please believe me."

"I buried you," she whispered. "I was at the funeral. Your redhead came and told me you'd been…"

He deflated and slumped at the weight of her words. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry. But it wasn't a lie. I died that day."

"Then how can you be here?"

She watched his mouth worked, but no answer came. Not until he shrugged, his jaw grinding together. "I don't know." He sank to the steps—the most unsteady motion Anna'd ever seen from him. He sat taking deep breaths with his head in his hands. "I don't know," he repeated, and it was hard to miss the exhaustion and fear in his voice.

"Phil?" she asked quietly, her hand slowly falling to her side. "What happened?"

His head came up, and her stomach lurched at the pain in his eyes. "I think they broke me."

* * *

Anna slipped out the side door of the symphony hall and emerged from the alley onto the sidewalk. She was about to begin usual meandering about the city, a post-concert tradition to help clear her mind of melodic runs and her two missed notes of the evening, but a voice stopped her.

"Excuse me," a gentleman said. She felt two fingers gently land on her upper arm, and she spun around quickly. When she first laid eyes on him—black trench coat, blacker suit, nice eyes—he raised his hands in a defensive posture. "I didn't mean to startle you. Just wanted to let you know you that I appreciated listening to your music tonight. It was lovely."

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You must have me confused with the first chair French horn; we're both brunette and under the age of a hundred. I'll let you know you liked her solo."

"No, I definitely meant you and your cello."

Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "You do realize I'm not first chair, right? That wasn't my solo in the third piece."

"No, but you helped contribute to the section, made them sound strong." He shrugged. "I'm a big fan of working as a team."

Anna tried to keep her smile polite as she looked around for a reason to end the conversation. She found her exit strategy when she spotted a petite woman standing fifteen feet away. "Your date looks bored; you should probably go fix that."

The man's eyebrows rose in surprise. "My date?"

She nodded. "The redhead you sat next to and chatted up between each piece."

Small lines appeared at the corner of his eyes—a mix of curiosity and being impressed with her deduction. "I was sitting in the fifth row. Didn't think you'd be able to see that far with the stage lights on."

"If you were two rows back, I wouldn't have. But that hair color's hard to miss."

His fingertips brushed his temples as he gave a small, coy smile. "Why thank you." Anna didn't know whether to roll her eyes and walk away or laugh at the dorky joke. "My co-worker," he said, not giving her time to respond to his humor. "We work together; we're not dating."

"I know plenty of people who date their co-workers," she challenged.

He shook his head. "Too messy in my line of work."

"And what would that be?"

"Banking," he answered smoothly.

"Bullshit," she replied. "Your suit, stance, and the way your redhead keeps looking everywhere—especially at me—suggests otherwise."

"Maybe I'm the CEO of a bank and she's my bodyguard."

"No. I can totally see her as a bodyguard, but you're not nearly flashy enough to be a CEO. So I'll ask again—and know that I have absolutely no place in my life for liars." The hard tone of her voice slightly surprised her, but then, this whole conversation was unexpected. It wasn't this stranger's fault that she had the past that she did.

His jaw rose in a slight challenge. "What kind of line of work do you think I do?"

"I've seen enough intelligence officers to know one when I see one. CIA? Department of Defense?"

He rolled his lips for a split second before answering, "S.H.I.E.L.D."

She didn't know much about the name other than it was usually associated with some high-level shit. "Are we safe?" she asked quietly.

He nodded, "It's fine for you to talk to me, I mean I can't—"

"I meant the city."

"Oh," he said with a small chuckle, the tips of his ears turning a faint pink. "Portland is fine."

"But you're here."

"And I spent the last two hours listening to a wonderful symphony. Would I do that kind of thing if Portland was in trouble?"

She squinted at him, trying to make a decision. "What about the redhead? You two doing some recon work or something?"

The man shook his head and raised his hands. "I swear, there were no ulterior motives. I enjoy classical music, and she used to dance. She amuses herself by picking apart symphonies and their players. She said you all were 'decent enough.' You should consider that high praise." He swayed slightly on his feet for a second before clearing his throat. "I know you have no reason to say yes, but is there any chance you'd like to grab a cup of coffee? There's a place I know around the corner; they make their own donuts. Can't come to Portland without getting good coffee and a pastry."

She should've said no, should've walked away. But she never got past his kind eyes. So she quickly dug her phone out of her purse. "Name?" she asked.

"I'm sorry?"

"What's your name—and remember, I don't tolerate liars."

"Phil Coulson."

Before he could react, she snapped a picture of his face. "I'm sending this picture and your name to my sister. If I go missing, she knows who to come after."

"I swear I have no intention of—" His words cut off as he realized her next picture was going to be of his co-worker. His fingers clamped over the top of her phone, blocking the camera. "Trust me when I say that's not a good idea. She will break your phone, and possibly your hand, if you try that."

"Is she coming with us to get coffee?"

He turned and waved off the redhead. She hesitated for a moment, but then complied and began heading away. "No," he answered. "Any other demands before we go?"

"I suppose not."

* * *

When Anna and Phil walked out of the symphony hall and onto the sidewalk where they first met, she couldn't contain the small gasp at the sight of his face. The wound around his right eye was healing, but it wasn't hard to imagine how nasty it had been. The skin around his left eye had a greenish hue from what was once a bruise, and the scab on his forehead spoke of even more violence. They were all details she'd missed in the darkness of the stairwell and her shock at seeing him alive. "What happened?" she asked.

"That isn't even the worst of it," he muttered. A pang of sympathy shot through her as she watched his eyes glaze over into something lost and little helpless, but the look quickly left his face. "I need to ask you a favor, and it's something huge."

She wanted to say no, wanted to shout at him how much time it'd taken to recover from losing him. Yell that he had no right in asking for favors, especially huge ones, after what he'd put her through. But this was Phil, and she knew how rare it was for him to ask for help. "What is it?"

"My team's been recalled to New York, and I'm being forced to use up a few vacation days."

"And you want to spend them here?"

A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. "That would be ideal, but no. May—one of the agents I work with—is refusing to let me out of her sight right now. She'd never admit it outright, but it's true. I would appreciate it if you would come with us."

"Why?"

"I can't explain it here," he told her with obvious regret. "But I will tell you why I need you."

Her eyebrows lifted at his choice of verbs. She stared him down, looking for any tell on his person that might show this to be some trick. "How long would we be gone?"

"Three days. Then my team's off again. We could bring you back here, or I could arrange a flight for you."

Anna bit back the argument bubbling up in here about the word again and just nodded. It was a familiar fight that was centered in worry for when he was gone. "We're on holiday break until mid-January now that the Christmas shows are done. I suppose I could spend a few days in New York. But I need to go home and pack."

Phil nodded. "We have time for that," he said before turning and heading north on the sidewalk.

"Wrong way," Anna informed him. "I don't live there anymore." He turned back to her with scrunched eyebrows, and she sighed. "Portland is supposed to be a happy place. I didn't want to ruin my good memories of being here with the grief of losing you, so I went to San Francisco for a while. I only moved back about four months ago."

"I'm so sorry."

She shrugged. "People die. C'mon."

Anna led him down the mile-long path to her loft apartment. The whole way she considered whether or not this whole thing was a good idea. At least she wondered that after trying to convince herself that all of it was actually happening.

Phil had been gone for over a year, and all of the sudden he was back and wanting her to fly away with him on a moment's notice. Two years ago, there wouldn't have been any hesitation, but now…

There were a number of red flags swirling in her mind, but for every warning there was a memory so warm and dear that it made her heart seize. And when she caught glances of his face on their walk to the apartment, Anna couldn't help but feel a deep need to soothe the worry lines etched on his face.

The three-story walk-up caused her to leave her cello at work most of the time; she had a cheaper one to practice with at home. When they hit the door, her cat—a Russian blue named Felix—twined his way between her ankles. She nudged him away with her foot so they could enter her apartment. "I'll throw some clothes in a bag and make sure he has enough food. Give me five minutes."

"That's fine," Phil answered. "I'll call my team and let them know we'll be wheels up in thirty."

She poked her head out of her bedroom. "We're not flying commercially?"

"I have my own plane."

"Phil," she sighed, "I need you to promise that I'm not going to get shot by some sniper because I rode on your super secret spy plane."

The corner of his mouth tugged upwards. "I made a call with my boss, and it's fine. He owes me a few after this week."

The bitterness in his tone made her want to press more into whatever his world of secrets was, but she let it rest for now. Quickly, she threw clothes to last her five days—always over-prepare, her father had taught her—in a duffel bag. When she came back out into the living room, Phil was seated on the couch and Felix was curled up against his thigh. "Still have your lint roller handy?" she asked.

"He's fine."

"Since when? You would bitch for days about finding cat hairs on your suit."

Phil shrugged. "He still likes me. It's fine."

His words and lost tone of voice froze her in her steps to refilling the cat's food bowl. "Phil, what happened?"

"Plane," he answered brusquely. "You ready?"

They arrived at the airfield a short while later, and she was too lost in thought to really take in her surroundings. Anna didn't see the plane until they were walking up to it, but when she finally looked, she felt her body drown in panic. She didn't see a black cargo jet with people loading crates onto it; she saw a plane sitting in a Dover hangar, soldiers coming down the cargo ramp with flag-covered coffins.

"Anna? Shit," he muttered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I wasn't thinking."

"You haven't thought about anything today, have you?" she hissed back. She swiped away his fingers stretching out in her direction and backed up from him and the plane. He didn't follow.

"If you want to go, I—"

"Just shut up for a second," she snapped. Taking deep breaths, she reminded herself that she was here to try and help Phil, not collect her husband's corpse. Phil, by some unknown miracle, was alive and that needed to be the focus, not the fears associated with losing a man—well, two men—she'd loved. Once she stopped hearing the blood rush in her ears, she opened her eyes and gave a small nod. "Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she breathed. He approached to rest a hand on the small of her back, but she ducked out of the way.

"Okay," he said as he backed away, and she immediately felt guilty for the hurt in his voice. "Follow me."

She did as ordered, keeping her eyes on her feet. Despite him making arrangements for her to fly with his team, she was sure there was stuff she was never supposed to look at. As they boarded the ramp, a flash of red caught her eye and she looked up to see Lola. She felt Phil's eyes dart over his shoulder as they passed the car, and it was hard not to remember Saturday morning drives out of the city for a brunch at some diner in his beloved convertible.

Anna followed him up a set of stairs and into some lounge with a trio of white leather couches, a bar, and a mini-kitchen. As soon as they entered, the conversations between the room's five occupants ceased. "Everyone," Phil announced, "this is Anna. She's going to be flying back with us. Anna, this is my team."

"You're with S.H.I.E.L.D.?" a tall man with dark hair asked.

"No," Anna answered.

"She's the cellist," an Asian woman said with a smirk.

A shorter man with curly hair gave a look of shock, "But you're so…"

"Young," a British voice sounded at the same time the other young woman said, "Female."

"And you're not the Avengers," Anna said.

"What makes you think I work with the Avengers?" Phil asked.

"You talk in your sleep," she answered. The tips of Phil's ears turned red, and she heard someone snicker behind her. She stepped in closer and lowered her voice. "You gave me not one but two panic attacks today. Did you really think you'd make it through this evening unscathed?"

"We're wheels up in five, everybody better strap in," the older woman announced before walking away. Tall, dark, and broody gave Anna one final look before following her. The two foreigners whispered to themselves as they left the way Phil and Anna had come into the lounge. That only left the young woman with the long, dark brown hair.

"You talk in your sleep?" she asked her boss with an evil glint in her eye.

Phil cleared his throat. "You can put your bag on my bunk," he told Anna.

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"Yeah, she can," the young woman muttered.

Phil gave them both a frustrated look. "We're red-eyeing back to New York," he told her, "but if I need to sleep, there's a couch in my office upstairs. You can have my bunk. The only other bunk for guests is in the interrogation room, and like you said—I've done enough damage to you today."

"Phil—"

"I'll be upstairs." As he passed the other woman, he ordered, "Make sure she gets strapped in."

"Phil," Anna called again, but he ignored her and climbed up a spiral staircase. "Dammit," she muttered.

"Here," the young woman said as she rose from one of the couches. "His bunk is over here. I'm Skye, by the way."

"Anna." The bunk was barely more than a bed. But when she walked into the compartment, she smelled his aftershave in the air and saw a closet full of gray suits. Tears, ones she'd been holding back since Phil appeared in the stairwell, clouded her vision. She'd washed bed sheets and pillows a dozen times to rid them of his scent. She'd banished memories of him lost in thought as he picked out the perfect tie from her mind.

All those memories and mementos from him, she'd boxed away and sealed up. And when that wasn't enough, she'd run away. Because that was how she dealt with losing someone she loved—fleeing.

But he wasn't gone, not anymore. Part of her mind was in delighted shock to have him back. But the other half whispered that his life held even more secrets now that he couldn't share. Did she really want to go yet another round with a man who couldn't be completely honest? The total sum of the mental chaos left her a sobbing mess, and the girl—Skye—shifted from foot to foot next to her. "I know you're having a moment and all, and I don't blame you, but May—she's our pilot—has this need for speed and Coulson wasn't kidding around when he said you need to strap in. Do you want to do that in here? I can help you." Anna shook her head, unable to speak and Skye nodded back with big eyes. "Okay, that's okay. We'll just go back out here." The girl reached out to rest a hand on Anna's arm, but she jerked away.

"Sorry," she choked out between sobs. "It's been—"

"It's fine. No touching, got it." Anna followed her back out to the couches, and Skye helped her dig a seatbelt out from between the cushions. "Do you need anything? Blanket? Booze?"

"Both, but I should probably just stick to the blanket." She disappeared for a moment and returned with a fuzzy, navy blanket and a box of tissues. "Thanks," Anna sniffled. "I'm really sorry."

Skye waved her off. "It's okay, you've had a big day. These S.H.I.E.L.D. agents aren't really the best about being subtle and easing into things."

"So you're not—"

"Me? No. I consult, which means I hack stuff and give them information." They lulled into a semi-uncomfortable silence, and Anna heard the engines flare to life. "I can go to my bunk if you—"

"Please stay. I've chased enough people away today."

Skye's face turned to the spiral staircase and sadness flashed in her eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came. "He's just having a really rough time lately."

"What happened to him?"

Skye shook her head. "That's not my story to tell." She focused her attention on her hands for a minute. "But I know he cares about you. A lot. It's kind of our fault this happened to you today," she said with a wave of fingers to encompass the others on the plane. "We pushed him to tell you. It was either that or he was going to drift further into becoming some emotionless… thing."

"He was hurt," Anna said.

Skye snorted. "You'd be butthurt too if S.H.I.E.L.D. treated you—"

"I meant his face," Anna said while motioning around her eyes. "Recently, he was hurt."

The girl's face paled a bit. "Yeah," she whispered. "He was hurt."

Anna went to unbuckle her seatbelt to go talk to Phil, but was pressed back into the sofa as the plane accelerated down the runway and lifted into the air. "I guess I'll wait until we reach our cruising altitude."

* * *

They had a pleasant chat over coffee that first night. It lasted for an hour, and when it was over, he made sure to walk her back to the symphony hall, not pressing about walking her home or for any real personal details. Part of her wondered if it was because he was afraid she'd ask him to reciprocate.

The next time he was in Portland was three weeks later. Phil was by himself, and once again they went for coffee afterwards. Flowers appeared for her two days later at work. On the back of the card, there was an email address. Anna tried not to think about who else might be reading the message as she wrote a thank you note to him. Tulips are lovely. Not my favorite, but still lovely.

Phil was in town twelve days later, and this time, he upgraded their post-concert activity to a late dinner. He offered her a number of culinary choices—sushi, Italian, burgers—and when they sat down at the Moroccan place down the block, he admitted to spending the better part of his afternoon making reservations all around town so they wouldn't have to wait no matter where they went.

Each time he visited, he sent her flowers two days later. Anna always sent an email to say thank you for the bouquets; it read that they were lovely, but still not her favorite. She ran out of her usual thank you message when he showed up after a rehearsal with Shasta daisies in hand.

"I have thirty-six hours," Phil told her with a small smile. "Not saying all of them have to be spent with you, but I wouldn't mind if they were."

They didn't spend every hour together, but they did spend a fair amount learning more about each other. Little details were discussed—favorite movies, things they'd never eat again, childhood memories, bucket lists. Phil met her cat Felix when she invited him over for dinner at her apartment before she dropped him off at the airport. They tolerated each other.

At the curb for passenger drop-offs, Phil confessed that he would love to call, write, and see her more often. "I just know my schedule isn't the best for maintaining a relationship. Long-distance can be difficult enough."

"I know how this game's played," Anna told him. "I've been through it before once." Phil's eyebrows rose in slight surprise. "My husband was military intelligence. I know what it's like to spend most of your time wondering where someone is and if they're okay."

"Was?" Phil asked.

"Killed by an RPG that shot down the helicopter he was in. That was four years ago."

"I'm so sorry."

Anna shrugged and kept her attention on the steering wheel. "We were married for nine years. By the end of it, we barely spoke. He was gone all the time, and when he could talk we were surrounded by secrets and lies." She shook her head. "Doesn't mean I still didn't collapse when officers showed up on the doorstep to notify me of his death." She looked over at him, his face tight and his eyes calculating. This must be what he looks like when he's working, she thought.

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"People die," she replied.

"So," he said as he quickly glanced down at his hands. When his eyes came back up, the hardness was gone, replaced by the kindness she'd grown to expect and enjoy. "Can I be hopeful in assuming that any hesitations on your part—which are completely fine—are caused by memories of that, and not me personally?"

Anna chuckled. "You're a pretty big dweeb. But you're also kind of adorable." His smile overtook his whole face and led to the appearance of little crinkles at the corner of his eyes. For some inexplicable reason, it made Anna feel safe.

"I'll call you when I land, if at all possible." Phil swallowed, his face sliding back faintly into what Anna assumed was work mode as he chose his next words. "I can't always tell you where I am or what I'm doing, but I'd still like the option to talk to you, if I can have it. I know now that's asking a lot of you."

Anna weighed her options. The thought of starting a relationship, especially one with this man, was enticing. He was sweet, smart, and his dry sense of humor was right up her alley. But there was the ghost of David and his work and how that had eaten her marriage. A car horn behind her brought her out of her thoughts and reminded her that they were at the drop-off curb at the airport.

"Sure," she said. Despite her lackluster reply, his face lit up.

They talked when they could, and rarely did a full day go by without at least a sentence or two being exchanged between them. They came to know each other through emails and brief phone conversations. The next time they saw each other face to face was a month later when he showed up on her doorstep with a duffel bag, looking exhausted. "I was ordered to use some vacation days, and I was hoping I could spend them here. I mean, I can check into a hotel. I was generally speaking about Portland when I said 'here.'"

Anna rolled her eyes and pulled him inside her apartment. Phil spent four days in Portland and never needed a hotel. He came to the two concerts she had in that time, and the rest of his vacation was spent doing things he probably didn't get to do that often—taking part in home-cooked meals, sleeping in, and not wearing suits.

"Thank you," Phil said as he nuzzled her neck his last morning there. They were still in bed despite the sun being up for a few hours. "I needed this."

"Has work been that awful?" she asked as she ran fingers over his bare shoulders and down his back.

"Bored billionaires are the bane of my existence."

"Someone try and create an evil monster that you had to take care of?"

He pulled back to look at her. "Have you not seen the news in the last week?"

"Certainly not in the last few days, which is completely your fault. But, no I usually don't watch the news."

Phil nodded. "You should Google the latest headlines on Tony Stark." He lowered himself back down and his fingers snuck under the hem of her tank top. "Just maybe not this second."

Three weeks later, Anna found herself in Chicago to visit a friend. The good news was Phil was in town, too. The bad news was he was visiting for his mother's funeral. What little they saw of each other was filled with heavy silence and words that didn't seem adequate enough.

A month later, after Thanksgiving dinner at her sister's house in Phoenix, Anna called to tell Phil she'd been offered a position in New York. "I'd be teaching cello classes. The guy I'm covering for, I used to sit second chair to him in Washington DC. He has to have surgery and will be out for spring semester. I told the symphony I was taking a six-month leave. I'll move to New York in two weeks and get settled, and then move back home mid-May."

"Where will you stay?" he asked.

"Don't know yet," Anna answered. "You wouldn't happen to know of anyone wanting to sublet, would you?"

"No, but I know of an apartment that I pay too much for in rent every month that doesn't get used enough," he offered.

"You realize I'm bringing the cat with me."

"That's fine," he replied in a practiced, polite tone.

"God," she laughed, "you are desperate for sex."

Things in New York started off well. They easily adjusted to being around each other. It was more difficult for Anna to adjust to the new time zone and working during the day with free evenings and weekends than essentially moving in with Phil. But the honeymoon phase wore off quickly. Phil was only home two or three days a week, and when he was, he came home late. At night, she'd try and fall asleep in his bed and not worry about him wherever he was. Rarely did it work.

In March, he came home from a two-week trip with the shy, boyish grin on his face. "Keep a secret?" he asked. He explained, with as few details as possible, about how they'd un-iced his childhood hero.

His enthusiasm was infectious, and she couldn't help grinning by the time he was done telling her about it despite wondering where all he'd been. Tony Stark had been acting up again, and her sister had called to tell her about some strange rumors out of New Mexico. "I'm going to have to call you Captain or something in bed tonight, aren't I?"

It was a rare Saturday morning that they both had free in early May, two weeks before she was to move back to Portland. Normally, they'd take Lola and get out of the city, but the sky was attempting to drown New York, so they stayed at home. "You could stay," Phil said quietly as he held her against him.

Anna closed her eyes and refused to turn in his arms. She couldn't bring herself to see his face when she said the words that'd been building up in her for the last six weeks. "No, I can't."

"Okay," he said as he let go of her and rolled onto his back.

"Phil," she sighed as she sat up and looked down at him. "I love you, I really do, but I can't go back to this life. I can't spend most nights not being able to sleep because I don't know if you're safe."

"Are you ending this?"

"I don't want to. But I don't think it can move on any further than this, and even maybe this is too much for us to handle." She ran fingers through her hair as she tried to form her next sentence. "I would never ask you to leave your career; you're obviously good at it and I'm positive the world needs you. But I'm not going to live my life in a holding pattern. I can't debate every night how much food to make for supper because I don't know when you'll come home, or constantly check my phone or wait for someone with horrible news to show up at the door. I can't survive doing that again."

He kept his attention on the window and turned away from her. "I'm sorry I—"

"Hey," she interrupted as she grabbed his chin and nudged his face her direction. "I knew exactly what I was getting into. And you've absolutely been worth it. I just think it needs to go back to what it was before. You come see me when you can, and that will just have to be good enough."

"And if I want more than 'good enough?'" Phil asked.

"I don't know what to tell you."

* * *

"How long were you two together?"

The question yanked Anna out of the chaos that is her mind, and she sniffled before turning to Skye. "Umm, I'm not sure how well you can use the word 'together,' but from the first time we met to losing him, it spanned almost two years."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise to her answer. "That long? I know what his schedule is like now, and if it was anything like that, I can't believe you stuck with him."

"I'd done it once before. Older man, dark hair, nice eyes, looks good in a suit, secrets on top of secrets, and a habit of dying on me—I apparently have a type."

"Sorry," she apologized quietly.

Anna shrugged. "My own fault. With David—that was my husband—I was young and dumb. I let myself fall into the illusion of marrying some James Bond type."

"And with Coulson?"

She picked at a ball of fuzz on the blanket draped across her lap as she tried to put together an answer. "I shouldn't have. I should've known better, but… He was just so kind, and not that my husband wasn't, it was just…" She paused to sigh and shake her head. "No one's ever treated me like that before."

Skye nodded. "I know what you mean," she said with a small smile.

"Oh," Anna replied. "I didn't realize he'd moved on."

"What? Oh, god, no." She waved her arms back in forth in front of her to emphasize her refusal. "No, no, no. Coulson is like the closest thing I've ever had to a dad, and I don't have a daddy kink. So, no. I mean, part of me would really like to ask you what he's like in the sack, but I might vomit if you answer."

Anna laughed for the first time since before rehearsing in the stairwell. "He might have me killed if I did answer. I shouldn't have mentioned the talking in his sleep thing." They fell into silence again until she asked, "Would he have made a good dad?"  
"I think he still could. You interested?"

She snorted her answer. "I'm older than I look, and he has all of this. There's no way he'd do both."

"Well, he'd be good at it."

Anna and Phil had never talked about kids or really anything ever long-term. Everything was in the moment, and Anna swore there were times where he wanted to push and broach the subject, the moment fled as quickly as it came.

"Is he mad at me?"

"Is he what?" Skye asked.

Anna gave one-shouldered shrug. "The last time I saw him, it was a few days after I told him I was moving back to Portland. And while it wasn't really an ending, it could've gone better. Things were left just kind of floating in the air, and if he's mad at me—"

"You're his metric standard," Skye interrupted with a serious expression. Anna's confusion must've been apparent on her face because the young woman continued. "FitzSimmons—the super pale nerds—they were telling me last week about this bar of metal that's perfectly one meter and it's the standard all other metersticks or whatever are measured against. You're that for Coulson."

"I'm not so sure."

"I am," Skye argued, her chin rising slightly in a challenge. "You really think he'd go through all of this trouble if you weren't?" Anna didn't get a chance to answer since the pilot—May—and the male agent who had yet to share his name came back into the cabin. "Wait," Skye directed at the newcomers with a tone of shock, "you actually put this thing on auto-pilot?" May's answer was a silent stare, but even Anna didn't miss the way her dark eyes flickered in her direction.

"I guess that means we can unbuckle?" Anna asked as she pushed the blanket off her lap.

"Yeah, you should be good until we land," the man answered.

She unstrapped herself from the couch and was about to turn toward the spiral staircase when a thought crossed her mind. "Knowing your line of work, I'm sure you all have coffee stashed around here somewhere." In unison, all three pointed to a Keurig in the corner. Anna perused the tree of K-cups until she found the flavor she knew was Phil's favorite. She made a mug for him and added two sugars and a packet of cream. She paused before making an identical drink for herself, letting herself give into the coffee variation she associated with him for the first time in over a year.

"He doesn't like cream," the man said from across the room with his nose buried in a tablet.

"He does if it's in the evening and he doesn't have to go out for the night," Anna argued. Her answer caused the tiniest of flicker of what might be classified as approval to cross over May's face. "Up the stairs and then?"

"His office is the only thing up there," Skye answered. "Good luck."

Anna nodded and took a steadying breath before heading for the staircase. She was grateful that she may have just won the pilot's favor, at least a little, because the last thing she needed was the plane to bank while she navigated the spiral steps and tried not to spill coffee.

Like Skye had said, there was a tiny landing and then a closed door. Anna knocked her foot against the solid wood three times before announcing, "It's me." It wasn't until she added, "I brought coffee," that Phil answered to give him a second.

She'd counted to twelve in her head when he opened the door. "Hiding the classified stuff," he said as an explanation before moving out of the way for her to enter. The room had Phil written all over it. She knew from living with him of his adoration of all things vintage, especially when related to spies or Captain America. Anna even recognized a few gadgets that had once been in his apartment.

When he sat, it was behind the desk. Even though the room was small, the distance between them now seemed enormous, and Anna found herself questioning Skye's assessment of her being his standard. Anna placed the mug down in front of him before sitting in one of the chairs facing his desk. He picked the mug up and took a whiff, the smallest of smiles creasing his face.

"So why exactly does Skye think you're gay?" Anna couldn't help but ask as a means to safely kick off the conversation.

Phil took a sip of coffee before rolling his eyes. "She hacked part of my file and saw a picture of me with an agent—a male agent—I used to work with and made assumptions. Also, apparently no straight man is as much of a 'suit whore' as I am. As a result, she spent at least a week drawing bows and arrows with hearts around them."

"She trying to play Cupid?"

Phil rolled his lips, a sign Anna knew meant he was debating how much he could tell her. "It's more of a reference to the agent in question's weapon of choice."

It took a second for the words to click in her mind, but when they did, her eyes bugged slightly. "That Hawk guy?"

"Hawkeye," Phil corrected.

"I mean, if you want to have a threesome, his arms look amazing."

A light danced in his eyes, but dissipated as he took another drink of coffee. "I didn't think you'd ever want to sleep with me again, but if that's the motivation you'd need, I can make a couple phone calls."

"And here I thought it was you who wouldn't want to sleep with me."

"No," he breathed, his face going slack as it did when he was deadly serious about something. "Not at all."

She focused on her coffee and running her finger around the rim of her black mug. "With the way things ended, I figured—"

"We didn't get an ending," Phil interrupted, causing her to look at him. "I refuse to let that be an ending."

Her eyes fell back to her coffee. After two days of strained silence after she turned down his offer to stay in New York, he left early in the morning to go… somewhere with promises of talking when he got back. Six days later, Phil had yet to return and the Chitauri came flooding out of the sky.

"Are we going to talk about what happened?" she asked.

"Where do I start?"

"Wherever you can."

She sipped most of her coffee down before he began his explanation. "Four days ago, I was kidnapped. The people who took me, they helped me realize that what I thought happened when I was brought back to life was a lie."

Anna waved him down. "I'm going to need you to back up to this whole back-to-life thing."

The color drained slightly from his face, and she knew he didn't want to maintain eye contact, but he managed it nonetheless. "You weren't lied to. I did die. I was dead for days. But S.H.I.E.L.D., they… brought me back. I don't know all the details, and I couldn't tell you if I did, but it was a long process. By the end of it, I was suicidal and begging them to just let me die."

She didn't realize she'd stood until she was basically pushing her way onto his lap. He shifted his focus on the row of windows to his right, so she reached up to brush her thumb along his left cheek. His eyes slid shut, and he leaned into the contact. "Keep going," she encouraged.

Phil swallowed. "I guess they felt guilty, or maybe they were scared about what I would do. Either way, they gave me a fake memory to cover up what they'd done. Made me think I was only dead for a handful of seconds and then spent my recovery on a beach." He brought his eyes up to meet hers again. "What if that wasn't the only memory they missed with?" he whispered. "How much of my head is filled with lies? I have these moments where I freeze and I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. What if that's because I don't know who I am anymore? What if they've changed me so much that I'm not me?"

Her other came up so that she now cradled his face, her thumbs swiping away the occasional tear that fell from his eyes. "Oh, Phil," she breathed.

"There were times when they were forcing me to remember what actually happened that I wondered if you were a lie, too. I questioned whether you were some other happy memory they stuck in my head to appease me."

"No," she told him as she leaned to rest her forehead against his, ignoring her own tears. "No. I'm real. What we had was real."

"Was?" he questioned in a small voice that shattered her already cracking heart. She stumbled to find a kind yet honest response, but he kept talking. "One of the people who kidnapped me a few days ago, she knew things she shouldn't have. She knew about dinners at the Richmond. She said…" His voice drifted off as his hand came to rest on her knee. He stared at his fingers, and she wondered just how much contact he'd need to know she was truly here. "She said that you loved me. That when I died you were devastated."

"It's true. Of course that's true. Phil, how many times did I say 'I love you?'"

"You were leaving," he answered, his eyes stuck on her knee. "I wasn't sure."

She grabbed hold of his chin and forced him to look directly at her. "Just because I was leaving didn't mean I stopped loving you. I still haven't stopped loving you. And of course I was devastated. I cried for days."

"Tell me what happened," he asked and she couldn't ignore the near-begging tone of his voice.

Anna sighed and stood from his lap. Part of her immediately regretted the loss of his body heat, but she needed to walk while she talked. She began to pace the short empty space along the interior wall of his office. "I was supposed to go back to Portland two days after the Chitauri attacked, but the government put New York in a quarantine for a week. Even though the airports were fine, no one was allowed to come in or leave until they gave the okay that we wouldn't, I don't know, pass some alien flu all around the world and wipe out humanity." She picked up her coffee mug during her next pass by his desk and downed the last dregs of it. "I figured you were busy with the mess. On the day of the attack, I didn't even try to reach you. I just looked out the window and wondered which broken building or line of smoke you were trying to fix. The next day, I sent a couple texts. Day three, I started to really worry and called every three hours. On day four, your redhead knocked on the door."

Anna felt herself drowning in the memory: the fear that gave way to shock which led to the most intense bout of loneliness she'd ever felt. "She'd told me you'd been killed and said she'd get me word about services, but it was going to take a few days because of the quarantine and aliens and whatnot." She stopped her pacing to lean her back against the wall and look at him. "I stayed in your bed and sobbed for days. Cried until there was nothing left and then just kept on going. Never in my life have I been so devastated."

"I'm sorry," Phil apologized.

"People die," she answered out of habit.

"But I—it's my fault I died. I went into a situation I knew I wouldn't be able to control and—"

"I'm sure it was something that needed done."

He rose from his chair and it was his turn to rest a hand on her cheek. Immediately, she found herself leaning into the touch, desperate for contact. "Hurting you wasn't something that needed done. I've never wanted to do that." He cleared his throat. "The morning you said you were going back to Portland, I wrote a letter to my boss giving a two week's notice."

"What?" she asked.

"I'd thought I'd come to terms with giving up a normal life, and then you were there when I came home and I realized I'd been lying to myself."

She blinked in disbelief. "You were going to walk away from this?"

Phil nodded. "I wanted more than good enough."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was waiting for it to go through. I didn't want to get your hopes up if it wasn't able to happen. But then I was called away and…" He ended with a shrug.

"And now?" she asked, the first shimmers of hope stirring in her stomach.

He sighed and his face once again slipped into something close to brokenness. "I can't," he answered apologetically. "There's still some things I need to find out, and I won't be able to do that if I leave. I need answers, and S.H.I.E.L.D. is the only place I can find them."

Her chin fell to her chest, and she felt tears running down the length of her nose. Anna'd been so ready to tell him that this was their chance at a goodbye and to leave it at that, but then he'd gone and admitted what he had intended to do. And she couldn't walk away from that, and it hurt too much to walk away from him. She knew how hard he worked and how much he generally loved his job; she was floored that he was willing to walk away from it for her sake. "So what do we do?"

"I don't know," he said with a shake of his head. "And I hate not knowing." His mouth pursed before he asked his next question. "Do you even still want to be with me?"

Rather than speaking her answer, she grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and yanked him forward until his body crushed hers against the wall. The kiss was hot and desperate, and they were both left panting when they finally—barely—broke apart.

"So what do we do?" she repeated when she could find her voice again. "I can't bury you again. I won't survive it."

"I don't want to settle for seeing you maybe six hours every other week."

"I can't imagine we'd get much more than that."

He shrugged as he nosed her cheek. "As long as I'm working from here, I have easy access to coming to see you."

She rolled her eyes at his joke for good measure, but felt her stomach twist. She'd sworn to herself after losing Phil that she would never become entwined with this kind of life again, but to have him here and pressing against her, she felt walls slowly crack. "So we go back to the way it was before? You dropping by when you can?"

"If we do, know that I won't think that's good enough either," Phil replied. "You have every right to walk away. I know I've hurt you more than I have any right to, and if you want to make these next few days a goodbye, I would understand. But," he added, looking her in the eye, "if there is even the slightest chance that you would be willing to keep something—anything—going, I'd be ecstatic."

"Why the next few days? You keep talking about how you need me for the weekend. What's going on?"

He waved a hand in the general direction of the other people on the plane. "They know me as I am now, and May knew me before, but that's as Agent Coulson. I'm sure S.H.I.E.L.D. did everything they could to keep that part of me intact. It's the other part of me, the side you know, that I'm worried about. I need to know if I'm still me."

Anna had doubted her actions at each step of the day: talking to Phil when he first appeared, inviting him back to her home, getting on the damn plane. She'd built walls so thick after losing her husband, she figured no one would be able to break them down, but then came Phil. And after losing him, the walls from before seemed like chain-link fence. But Phil had broken through her barriers before, surely he could do it again. But was she willing to let him try?

"Three days?" she asked.

He nodded. "And if you want to end it then, or even sooner, then that's what will happen."

Her right hand lightly ran its way down his tie and back up his suit jacket, reacquainting itself with the textures and sensations that were Phil. "And if I don't want to end it there?"

"I'm done with secrets," he told her. "Obviously, I'm not going to tell you everything that happens to us for your own safety, but you've met my team, you've been on the plane. I don't have to hide that from you, and I don't want to. I'm so tired of hiding secrets because I was ordered to. Especially when it hurts people."

"So we could call and talk if you're away and not busy?"

"I will do my very best," he promised.

"And what about seeing each other? You live here, it's not like I can come see you easily."

He smiled. "You're right, I do live on this thing now. But a friend once promised me use of a plane to keep love alive. So I'm willing to give it a try if you are."

Part of her heart jumped at the chance and wanted to shout yes, but the broken and brittle section tamed down the reaction. "Let's do three days and go from there."

His grin widened and she was reminded of why she'd fallen in love with him in the first place: those kind eyes. "Thank you."

* * *

Three days later, Anna awoke to the mattress dipping. She groaned and burrowed further into the ridiculously high thread count sheets of Phil's bed.

"Hey," he said gently, a hand fanning into her brown hair.

"What time is it?" she grumbled.

"Nine-thirty."

"Which means it's six-thirty in Portland. What's the rule, Phil?"

He sighed. "I know the rule—"

"Then say it."

She could feel him cast an unimpressed at her, but she was too cozy and warm to care. "I'm not supposed to wake you before eight in the morning, Pacific time. But everyone is waiting on you."

That caused her eyes to open. "Define 'everyone.'"

"My team. They brought bagels. I think it's their poor social cues asking if they can hang out with you."

She groaned as she pushed back the covers. "I'm going to have to be coherent and talky, aren't I?"

"Please," he answered before leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. "Coffee's brewing."

"Fine." She quickly ran through the shower and pulled her wet hair into a bun before walking out into the living area. As soon as she did, the conversations ceased. "You guys really have to stop shutting up when I walk into a room," she told them. "It's weird."

Phil handed her a mug of steaming coffee, and it wasn't hard to miss the uptick in the corner of his mouth or his eyes sparkling. "Bagels are in the kitchen."

"And there's shmear," the young British woman announced in her best Yiddish accent.

Skye patted her on the head. "Gold star—you tried."

Introductions were made so that Anna finally had a name for the tall, male agent—Ward—and so she could learn the separate halves of FitzSimmons. They chatted idly, asking her questions about siblings and where she grew up. "Will you play for us?" Simmons asked. "He says you're lovely to listen to."

"He's biased," Anna said. "And I don't have a cello with me at the moment, so no. Sorry."

Her answer caused the two scientists to immediately devolve into talks of polymers and collapsible material, and Anna could only guess that they were discussing the construction of a more mobile instrument. She leaned her head toward Phil. "Am I supposed to understand what they're saying?"

"Not even a little."

"Good."

"So," Skye butted in with a smirk as she sauntered up to where Anna and Phil were standing in the kitchen. "You talk in more in your sleep?" she asked with a waggle of her eyebrows.

Phil sighed and turned to Anna. "Will you please tell them that I don't do that?"

She gave him an apologetic look. "You don't always do it."

"I don't talk in my sleep," he replied in a tone rapidly approaching exasperated.

"The only time you do it is when I know you're actually resting, and not just recharging your batteries." His face fell at her choice of words and he ducked his chin. "Hey," she whispered before kissing the indentation on his face caused by a clenched jaw. She felt the muscles relax slightly under her touch. "You're still you." It was a statement she'd made often over the last few days, but he still had yet to fully believe her.

"Get a room," Fitz joked loudly from the other side of the kitchen. He looked quite proud of himself till he saw the look on Phil's face, then he paled and tried to curl in on himself.

"We did," Anna replied. "And then you all showed up."

"Does that mean you two are together?" Skye asked.

Anna watched Phil's Adam's apple bob and noticed how he was studiously staring into his mug and avoiding eye contact with her. "All I asked for was three days," he answered.

Now or never, a voice in Anna's head rang. Either be done with this or jump all in. "True," she said, "but we can try for a little longer than that, don't you think?"


End file.
